miles baines: riff-raff! street rat! (mimicks) wrote in emillion, @ 2014-06-29 20:05:00 |
|
|||
As far as first jobs went as a newly minted captain, the trip to Anjou had gone smoothly enough. With the crew still warming up to her, it was no surprise how they’d encountered minor complications upon arrival, though they’d been sorted out without any lingering despair. Damia could tell the crew knew better than to make a fuss, but they had enough respect to bring up any important issues when it was suitable. But just because they’d loved her father didn’t mean they’d love her. Still, a day after the Lareine was docked and she was back in Emillion, she could feel the satisfaction washing over her. It wasn’t cockiness ― she wasn’t going to put all her eggs in one basket or put all of her confidence into a ship she’d only recently been promoted to captain ― but rather a genuine happiness. How had she waited so long to do this? The answer, she knew, was fear. Fear of letting her father down, of letting the crew down, of not being as good as she thought she was. Now she had all the time to prove it to them that their days of being jerked around were over. Damia ascended the stairs leading up into the ship, refusing to stare too long at the entrance to the hangar where she knew Miles would waltz through. She curled her fingers around the rail, savouring the cool metal beneath her palm. It was about time for him to show up, but she wasn’t going to hold her breath. Miles had let her down before; standing her up was always a possibility. She drew her gaze up the monster of an airship and sighed. Her thoughtful musings were eventually interrupted by a distant flicker of movement in the hangar, however. Miles tended to prefer his entrances more dramatic (rappelling down from the ceiling, exploding through doors in gouts of smoke, leaping through portholes into open sky), but for today, he contented himself with strolling down the docks of the Aerodrome and counting off the numbers until he found Damia’s bay. It was still strange, not seeing the familiar contours and hull of the Rising Sun above him—but perhaps in time, the Lareine would become just as familiar, with its jagged sharp lines and crimson dragon-like prow. He stood at the side of the ship, squinting up at the glimmer of blonde by the railing. “Yoo hoo! Hailing the Lareine!” the man shouted, hands cupped around his mouth, for the moment sounding like a lookout on one ship calling to another. Damia was struck by the familiarity of the voice long before the surprise over the hail claimed her. She peered down at Miles, taking in the sight of him. Looking at him, it felt like nothing had changed, her heart still surging within her rib cage, but she knew better. They hadn’t really spoken properly in weeks, as if allowing time to mend the past when words might’ve been more useful. She sighed. “Don’t move,” she called down, not particularly hurrying on the descent toward him. Soon enough, the blonde stood a few feet away from him, arms crossed protectively across her chest. “‘Yoo hoo’?” “It seemed appropriate. Isn’t that what people shout to captains in the rigging?” Nevermind that the Lareine had evolved far beyond rigging; it was all metal hull and glinting windows. Miles let out a low whistle as he pored over the rest of the ship, his eyes trawling from stern to prow (and conveniently avoiding having to meet Damia’s own eyes, at least for now). “She’s a beauty.” The blonde followed him with her gaze, eventually glancing away to the beauty in question. “She is called ‘the queen’ for a reason,” she pointed out, shifting in place to really look up at the airship. For a beastly ship that was nearing almost four decades old, it was in remarkable shape, a design far before its time. Rossul might have been a rat and a skeeze, but she could owe it to him that it hadn’t suffered too much over the years. If anything, it looked better than she could ever remember it looking when her father captained it. But then, it had always been a sight for sore eyes. They stood there in silence for a moment, both heads craned up towards the airship (the prize, the conquest). At last, Miles cleared his throat and took another step towards the stairs, like a foreign combatant inching over enemy lines. “May I come aboard?” It was far politer than the man usually was; he was still treading lightly around her, it seemed. Damia noticed, but made no indication that she had, moving past him with a jingle of belts and soft leather. “Ladies first,” she purred, reaching the stairs in moments before beginning her ascent. Five steps later, and all without stopping, she called out: “And if you stare at my ass, I will kick you down these stairs.” “Well, you’re making it awfully hard not to,” Miles said tartly as the woman bobbed away in front of him, and he soon followed suit. The quips were more comfortable, and more like the way things ought to be. The Lareine was about as cold and steely on the inside as it was on the outside, but there were more signs of activity within, more indication that life hummed between the walls. Cargo boxes here, a jacket hung there— once in a while, a stray tool. Even without crewmen laying about, at least on the lower levels, she was, it was clear someone — or several someones — had made this their home. Miles took in their surroundings in silence, instinctively analysing the setting like he might for a potential robbery: scoping it out, compiling all the details. All of their steps echoed, boots hitting steel without hurry. As soon as they reached the upper level of the hangar, the blonde stopped on the walkway, curling both hands around the rail. There were a thousand questions to ask, and she settled on one. “Why are you really here, Miles?” “To see your fancy new toy, of course.” It was a lie, and had all the reek of a lie: she knew it well. The corsair’s implacable expression and dead silence made it clear she wasn’t accepting that as an answer. After a long pause, Miles pursed his lips and then continued, thinly, carefully, “To see if we’re any better off, possibly.” She exhaled a breath she hadn’t known she’d been holding. “You could’ve asked as much over the comms,” she pointed out, belatedly realizing how cowardly an act that might’ve been. Those in the guild weren’t known for their honesty. If anything, their best skill was beating around the bush rather than getting straight to the topic at hand, but it was time for a change. Her eyes found his face. “Or were you hoping it’d be easier in person?” “Most things are easier in person,” Miles said, like he was parroting off a fact learned in history class. “I do most of my cons in-person. People believe what they see in front of them, they trust it. They don’t believe a voice in their ear or words scribbled on paper quite so well.” There was a beat, as he realised the potential implications of what he’d just said. Clearing his throat, Miles leaned back against the other railing, arms crossing. “Not that I’m conning you. That is.” “Do you think I wouldn’t be able to smell a con when I saw one?” Damia inquired without turning, choosing to keep her back to him; it was a sign of trust, traces of her affection lingering. Some looked at a back and saw opportunity to stab it. She certainly felt that way about certain others. The rest, well, they would never know how closely she held them. He watched the curve of her shoulderblades, the set of her shoulders. It was harder to read Damia without seeing her face, and robbed him of the chance to mirror her movements, echoing her own body language back at her. “I always prided myself on making them undetectable, but that point’s moot.” Speaking of cons, are you available for one? The words were right there, lingering on his tongue, but he couldn’t spit them out. There was business to be done—and there was a time, once upon a time, when he was all business with Damia Ravin. We don’t do social calls. “Are you less upset with me?” he asked, suddenly. It bothered him, and he couldn’t put his finger on precisely how it bothered him. “It’s been a while. Didn’t mean for you to take it that— hard.” It wasn’t an apology, nowhere near it… but then again, Miles Baines didn’t exactly do apologies. That much Damia knew, but if this wasn’t an apology, what was it? Something to ease his worries? As if a woman being upset with Miles was anything new. There were so many in his life, she probably didn’t even know the full count. The thought had her tensing, and she shifted, propping elbows on the rail to let her hands hang over nothing. “I’m less upset,” she agreed, leaving it at that. Any more and she’d reveal exactly why she’d been upset in the first place. Miles had clearly taken notice of how terribly she’d reacted, but if he hadn’t meant for her to overreact, how little had he considered what they’d had? If he’d even considered it at all, keeping it from her until after the deed was nearly done. Just another con, another job, only this time, it had involved her feelings and she’d been kept in the dark. She might’ve been less upset, but that didn’t ease the sting of betrayal. There was a pause, until the sound of boots on metal as Miles joined her, forearms folded over the railing and staring off into the rest of the hangar, the belly of the beast. Lareine wasn’t like the Rising Sun; more modern, more gleaming metal than creaking wood. Things would change if they used this airship for their future heists. A great many things had been changing. “I’m getting the Merry Women rolling again, lest you all get rusty and dusty without me. I’ll be in need of a corsair—I assume you have some spare time, now that you’ve accomplished this little coup of yours?” (He wouldn’t say he missed her. No, that was absurd, wasn’t it?) Damia watched him out of the corner of her eye, feeling the hair prickle along her arms at his proximity. Had it really been so long since they’d been in each other’s company? Faram above. On the bright side, if he said anything less than pleasant, it was quite a drop to the first floor of the hangar if he were to accidentally find himself shoved over the railing. She tipped her head back. Business, as usual. “Don’t expect me to come at your beck and call now that we can’t use the Rising Sun anymore,” she warned without much ice behind her words. “I already warned you that we’d have use of the Lareine,” he grinned. That the warning had come while they were eating breakfast in bed together, well, that sent the mind spiraling down some familiar paths. “It’s not like it’s charity. You get gil at the end of the day, as always, and the delight of entertaining company, and the triumph of knowing you’ve hoodwinked some good, honourable, upright, law-abiding citizens of Emillion.” “Oh, how the thought of it warms the cockles of my heart,” Damia purred in return, moving once more to settle her back into the railing, elbows still up on the steel. A comment about entertaining company lingered on the tip of her tongue unsaid, and was swallowed in favour of something more snide, her amusement quickly slithering away. “And our lady Alys Coulombe?” “Still in the group,” the man said, all stubbornness. “You two can learn to coexist. If you feel the urge to drop her out of the nearest airlock, I’d urge to you reconsider.” Then Miles himself seemed to consider the prospect, and added thoughtfully, musingly, “though I suppose it would mean my inheriting more gil than expected.” The blonde scoffed. "Great, then it's mutually beneficial." In reality, it wouldn't be that easy to dump Audrey off the ship in midair, or under most circumstances. And for as much as the woman irritated the fuck out of her, she didn't want to kill her. Maim, though, that was always an option. She sighed, turning away. "Let me know when you have something concrete in the works. I'd have to make sure there were no scheduling conflicts." Her boots thudded against the metal walkway. "And I'd need the time to figure out how to off Audrey." It was mostly a joke. The corner of Miles’ mouth tugged into something partway to a smile, acknowledging it. Before Damia could disappear down the walkway, however, the man cleared his throat. “Aren’t you going to give me the grand tour?” he asked. “All I’ve seen is the entrance and this hangar. Surely there’s more to the Lareine to justify all these years you’ve spent obsessing over it. A lavish captain’s cabin, perhaps?” When she turned back to give him another look of pure skepticism, Miles mustered up a guileless expression, innocent as only the truly guilty can look. If he could worm his way into her good graces and into the captain’s quarters—well, all the better. He had a bottle with her name on it too, tithe for the newly-minted captain. Finally, with a sigh and an arch “Fine”, Damia set off once more; this time Miles scurried after, their footsteps ringing on the metal, echoing and echoing as they went deeper into the ship. |